


You're more or less safe now.

by Stressed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stressed/pseuds/Stressed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'What you did, Sherlock- that’s, that’s a bit not good. Very not good, actually.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're more or less safe now.

The night Sherlock Holmes comes back from the dead was, up until the man himself actually appeared, one of the most boring nights in John’s existence. It had been a dull, overcast morning, threatened by some weak sunshine and then a torrential downpour as John had walked home.  He’d had a long day at the clinic, returned to reheat leftover takeaway from the night before, and then settled in his chair with a beer to watch the news. He’d gone up to bed around ten and then returned back downstairs bleary eyed at eleven to erratic thudding against the front door.

John took one look at Sherlock and pushed him into the closest armchair, which happened to be his. Sherlock slumped, pulled off his jacket and held out his arms for inspection as John pulled his medical kit from under the sink. It was covered in dust, but the dressings were fresh and the sutures clean as John wordlessly stitched the gash streaking down Sherlock’s jaw and then the smaller, shallower ones that littered his arms. Iodine was brought out, swabbed and its orange stain spread down the length of his forearms, John quick and efficient in his silence. Sherlock didn’t remember how the cut on his jaw had come about, but he was pretty sure the smaller abrasions were from hedgerows in Sweden, and the older ones reopened from a particularly upset landlady in Bulgaria.

‘Bed. Go on, go.’ John clasped him on the shoulder and then strode into the bedroom, rifling through drawers until a soft grey shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms were gently thrown in his direction.

‘You’ve taken this as your bedroom. Why? Nobody has used this in years.’ Sherlock mumbled as he changed quickly. His clothes were left in one heap, ready to be discarded, or better yet, burnt the next day.

‘You great clot. It’s still your bedroom, whether you were in it or not. Sentiment, Sherlock.’ John said fondly, as he tilted his head to tell Sherlock to hurry up.

Sherlock eased himself into the bed on his side, mindful not to lie on his bruised side. He shivered as he pulled up the thick duvet over himself, then flopped over with an indignant grunt as John withdrew them again. ‘Sherlock, sit up.’ John’s voice was soft, cautious; it caught and broke as he saw the full extent of the scarring down Sherlock’s neck and across his collarbone as the shirt pulled. The scars were old, certainly old enough to merit their silvery sheen, but new enough that John was concerned.

‘If only he knew,’ Sherlock thought bitterly. The scars didn’t show the month he’d spent in Mycroft’s odd flat in Scandinavia, recovering from a punctured lung and three broken ribs. They didn’t show how he’d screamed himself awake every night while he was there, the opulent tea reminding him horribly of John and how far he still had to go. The scars outnumbered the number of lives he’d had to take, but not by many; he’d met a man so ruthless the only scars he did have were those he gave himself to count his hits. These scars didn’t belong in the same room as John, as lovely soft John with his woolly jumpers and warm embraces. They belonged in a room with the old John, the broken and battered one that had returned from Afghanistan unable to see anything but a battlefield in London.

‘John, don’t worry.’ He grumbled, turning his face away as John cupped his chin. He gestured one hand wildly over the sheets. ‘Come to bed.’

‘You’ve just come back from three years of being… dead, and you want to go to sleep?’ John was incredulous.

‘Mmm. Being dead is tiring, and you’re tired, and we’re currently sat in a very warm bed, and you’ve yet to shout at me. I’d like to go to sleep so that this moment can last. Please.’

John looked at him, intently. Whilst it was true he had yet to shout, he just didn’t have the energy. He’d gone for three years without his partner, his best friend; and that man had seen to it that he’d returned from the dead for him. The weary ‘please’ made his mind up.

‘Are you going to sit on my foot all night or should I just resign myself to pins and needles now?’ the bored drawl came from behind a pillow as Sherlock had burrowed into it. ‘I am finally home, John, please just let me sleep.’ He inhaled deeply. The sheets did smell like John, of his shampoo, the vague clinical antiseptic and underneath it all the very familiar fabric conditioner they’d always used.

Sherlock looked up at John. The man seemed older, more drawn; his weathered and expressive face  bewildered as he stared back at Sherlock. He seemed to be heavier, although his figure was slimmer; as if the effort of merely functioning was pulling him down into the bed. This was the John that had been told his sister had gone back to rehab, that his mother was dying and his father dead. This was a John that had suffered; soldiered on, but suffered.

‘Come to bed.’ Sherlock repeated it softly, imploringly, as he slid his palm around John’s hip and stroked gently at the skin between his shirt and pyjama bottoms.

John sighed once, a gentle susurrus of breath as he settled in behind Sherlock, wrapping one arm gently around the detective’s chest to catch his hand on the other side and intertwine their fingers.

‘I’ll shout at you in the morning. I’m sorry. I’ll probably storm off to the pub, as well. I’m too tired to do it tonight, but… what you did, Sherlock- that’s, that’s a bit not good. Very not good, actually.’ John nudged his forehead in the space between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

‘I am sorry. I’ll get defensive and I’ll be hurtful, but I am sorry. I did what I had to, but I didn’t want to hurt you.’ Sherlock rubbed his thumb over John’s knuckles as he whispered.

‘I’ll tell you all about it one day. When we’re both calm enough. We’ll be old men by then, probably.’

‘Do that. I think it’s something I need to hear, even if I don’t want to. At least I get to look forward to that now, though. Growing old together. You’ll tell me all of it, even the bits you don’t want me to hear.’ John grasped Sherlock’s hand firmly, as if to emphasise his point.

‘Someday. Some of it.’

‘All of it, Sherlock.’

‘I missed you.’

‘I love you too, you daft git.’ John pressed a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck and smiled into his curls.

Sherlock smiled and curled back closer into John.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


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